


Not My Fucking Tempo

by daddychilton



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daddychilton/pseuds/daddychilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*I didn't realize when I first published this that I spelled Neyman's name wrong for the ENTIRE time. This has been rectified. I am sorry.</p><p>**I don't know how to spell his fucking name. It's literally spelled four different ways between the script, IMDb, Rotten Tomatoes and Miles Teller's twitter.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Not My Fucking Tempo

**Author's Note:**

> *I didn't realize when I first published this that I spelled Neyman's name wrong for the ENTIRE time. This has been rectified. I am sorry.
> 
> **I don't know how to spell his fucking name. It's literally spelled four different ways between the script, IMDb, Rotten Tomatoes and Miles Teller's twitter.

Neyman sat in the room in silence. It was four a.m., and he knew this needed to stop soon. He didn’t know – well, he did know a little – about what would happen to them if anyone found out. Ostracized, probably. Expelled? Fired? Definitely.

The door slammed open, and Fletcher stood there, clad in his usual, form-fitting black T-shirt. Tight blue jeans. Neyman felt sweat popping up and prickling his forehead. He felt himself –

“Show me what you got, Neyman,” Fletcher said. The intensity of his voice could only be compared to the feeling Neyman got while playing. It was powerful.

He picked up his sticks and began to play “Whiplash,” trying to hit the tempo correctly on the first time for  _once,_ but two seconds in and Fletcher cut him off. Silence filled the room again.

“Not quite my tempo,” he said.

To Neyman, this was the strangest form of foreplay – but God, did he love it.

Sometimes he wondered if anyone would find them here. If they would report it or keep quiet, he didn’t know. Most of the time, he didn’t care.

He started again, this time hoping he would make it past the two-second mark. He only made it five.

“Listen, Neyman. Not  _quite_ my tempo.”

A third time. A fourth. A fifth and sixth and the blisters on Neyman’s hands had started to break open. Blood dripped from knuckles to stick to drum.

By the seventh time, Neyman made it about ten seconds in, but instead of cutting him off, Fletcher kicked the cymbal out of the way and grabbed Neyman’s face by the hands.

“Do you even know what a tempo is?” He asked, and pulled him into a kiss so rough, Neyman thought his dick would pop right out of his pants.

A moan slipped off his tongue and through his teeth, and Fletcher paused. “This ain’t love, kid. This is the real world, and this is the real stuff. Pants, off.”

Neyman did as he was told, fumbling with the zipper the whole time. Fletcher let out a sigh of disbelief. He couldn’t do anything right, it seemed.

“Still don’t know what a tempo is,” Fletcher said, and he unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans in a flash, helping Neyman shuck them off in less than ten seconds.

“Do I have to do everything for you? Even speak? You haven’t said a word.”

“I—” he started.

“That wasn’t an invitation. Shut up.”

Fletcher took Neyman’s whole dick in his mouth and fondled his balls with his hand. Neyman could feel just a little bit of teeth, but he didn’t mind. He was scared for a second that he would come too early – but he managed to hold his orgasm back. He still didn’t know what “tempo” Fletcher was looking for in these meetings, but he always came too early. He would have to hold out a little bit –

He came and moaned, fletcher slapped a hand across Neyman’s mouth. He swallowed, and pulled his mouth off his dick.

“Not. Quite. My. Tempo,” he hissed.

“I’m sorry,” Neyman managed to breathe. Ten seconds was too short. Fuck.

“One day, you’ll know just  _what_ my tempo is. Come on – give this drum stick a whirl.”

Fletcher pulled his pants down in one swift move, penis erect and ready to be swallowed.

This was the first invitation for Neyman to suck his professor’s dick, and he was so ready.

“Alright,” Neyman said, a little more confidently, “I’ll show you fucking tempo.”

“What did you just –” but before Fletcher could finish, Neyman was on his dick.

“Not my tempo, and too much teeth,” Fletcher said without a hitch in his voice. He grabbed some of Neyman’s hair and began to push and pull his head at a pace slightly slower than what he had been going. He opened his mouth a little wider, hopefully reducing biting. Fletcher sighed.

“If I let go of your head, can you match this tempo?” Neyman started to nod, but realized he couldn’t in the position he was in. He growled a little, and Fletcher too his hand off his head.

He only lasted about two seconds before Fletcher ripped Neyman’s head off his dick and slapped his face.

“ _Not. My. Fucking. Tempo!”_ he yelled. He pulled up his pants, and stormed out of the room, leaving Neyman behind with a dick-flavored mouth and a burning handprint on his cheek.

What he felt most was how much he liked the feeling, and how much more he wanted of it.  

 


End file.
